


The Quality of Mercy

by LaDolceMia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B is a kingdom, And John its unwitting king, But is it a paradox really?, Ficcish experimenting, M/M, Sherlock in Love, Sometimes power dynamics seem paradoxical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 10:32:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/621141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaDolceMia/pseuds/LaDolceMia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>You stand within his danger, do you not?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quality of Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, you know– the famous speech from _The Merchant of Venice_. Portia turns up to try to save Antonio, prevailing upon Shylock in the royal court to show mercy on the grounds that when those in power are lenient to those subject to that power, it's nearer to divinity.
> 
> Fast forward a few hundred years, add a desperately smitten detective manhandling his napping blogger, shake well in a slash tumbler and serve.

“The quality of mercy, John, is not strain'd.” 

_Cage him with your legs and arms, he's strong for his size and will struggle instinctively._

“Grgnh. Sh'lck? Sherlock! What the hell–”

_Press harder. The mattress groans indignantly under your weight, and he stills, pinned beneath you like a butterfly to a specimen board._

“It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath.” 

_Softwet, John's mouth. Swallow his surprise, drink it, drink him. The sucking greed of the desert. Rain me through, John. Dry so long. So many years._

“Not _mmm_ \- that this _ahh_ \- isn't an interesting way to be woken from a kip, but what are you–”

“It is twice blest: It blesseth him that receives _and_ him that gives.”

 _Teeth, gentle, right over his carotid pulse, then your tongue right-_ there. _Just the same jacknife of tremor simultaneously through both your bodies, just the same moans from both your mouths._

“Look, we can- _oh_ \- of course we can, but let me up, you're- it's hard to breathe like this.”

“It is mightiest in the mightiest, John: It becomes the throned monarch better than his crown.”

_John's head is the most beautiful thing you've ever held in your hands. Stroke the skull beneath the golden diadem of hair. They say monarchs are mere figureheads now, paper tigers. "They" have clearly never met John._

“That's Shake- _oh god_ \- ...Shakespeare? I don't–”

“His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, the attribute to awe and majesty, wherein–” 

“Christ!”

“–doth sit the dread and fear of kings.”

_And you are one, you know. It bothers you, if only a little, that you're not a bit tall, but where is there a more dread king? Criminals aren't the only ones who tremble to think of your strength. You could strike me dead with a glance, John. End my life by your leaving. And so I am asking for leniency. Here, now, where you have me captured in our bed. My hand is on your penis, hard and warm, and my other hand is on your wrists, holding you down, and my mouth is on your mouth and your mouth is on my mouth and I'm pleading and you don't understand, you must listen, you have to understand– I am your prisoner and you have to show me mercy John, you must._

"Sherlock, let me go! Let me- ngh- touch you, let me _oh_ –"

"But mercy is above this sceptred sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, it is an attribute to God himself."

 _You chide me that compassion is important, so be compassionate to me. That divinity in you; spare me some of your grace. Drown me in it. Don't you see, John? I am your slave; when you trot after me on cases, when you serve me tea, when you wash the dishes, when you comply with every demand. Every moment of every day, you own me. You're holding me captive. Have mercy on me._

"Fuck! I'm going to-"

"And earthly power- 

“Jesus, Sherlock! Yes 

yes

 

"-doth then show likest God's when mercy seasons justice." 

 

~

 

There are between two and five seconds left before you open your eyes, if past observation of your post-coital physiology proves reliable. When they open, I will loosen my grip and your wrists will slip away and come down and your arms like chains will wrap me and then you will roll us over and make my flesh come apart and my mind dissolve and my heart ache with a terrible fullness and when it's over, you will say it, against my lips, or my neck, or mostly into the damp pillow under my head, and I will know, again, that love is not merely a dangerous disadvantage; it is a subjugation, a powerlessness, a hopeless imprisonment. And that I do not ever want to be freed.

Please don't release me. Be merciful, John. I am begging, and I do not like to beg. Show me mercy and I will worship you all the days of my life.


End file.
